Princess of the Pond
by ShinySherlock
Summary: Uncle Mycroft spends an afternoon with the queen.


_Inspired by a post that agameofscones made requesting babysitter!Mycroft. She had a baby in mind, but this came out instead. Hugs and kisses to wiggleofjudas for johnny-on-the-spot beta services!_

Mycroft parted the tall grasses before him with the tip of his umbrella.

"This way, my queen," he said to the young girl of six behind him.

"Uncle Mycroft, I should go first," she protested. "I've got the weapons."

He paused and looked her over carefully-bow on one shoulder, sword at the opposite hip, a quiver of arrows slung across her gown of deep teal and bright silver. He met her serious blue eyes.

"I would feel much safer if you did," he admitted, and stepped aside to let her pass. She pulled out her sword and held it before her with two hands, peering left and right as she continued down the disused path, her poof of curly, honey-colored hair bobbing above the grasses.

She paused a moment. Considered. "This way," she stated firmly, and then looked back to him for confirmation. He nodded discreetly.

They continued over a small rise, and stopped, looking down at the pond below, lined with shady willows and dotted with enough lily pads to evoke thoughts of Monet.

The queen squealed.

"It's _perfect_! Oh, Uncle Mycroft!" She flung her arms around his waist and squeezed.

And then she was off, running down the hill, and before Mycroft could say, "Amelia, do be careful-" she tumbled, weapons flying, and rolled to a stop near the shore.

He waited to gauge her reaction, though he wanted more than anything to run to her side.

"I'm all right!" she hollered, getting up and waving at him.

"Glad to hear it," Mycroft answered, walking carefully down the hill to her. The years when he could run down a hill without fearing a fall were behind him now. He came up to where she stood gazing across the pond with wonder.

Her second squeak of joy startled him, and he nearly dropped the satchel he carried.

"My effects, please," she said, reaching out with an urgent hand. He passed the satchel to her and she instantly dropped it to the ground, kneeling to rummage through her things.

"Aren't you going to sit?" she asked him, clearly shocked he had not already done so.

He regarded the muddy shore with disdain. "No, I don't think so."

She looked up with brows knit, and then followed his gaze. "Oh!" She dove into the satchel and wrestled something out.

"I brought you a blanket," she said, cheerfully, smiling up at him. "So you don't get your bum wet!"

Mycroft's eyebrows lifted. "That's. Well." He smiled. "How considerate of you."

She beamed.

Mycroft arranged the blanket and lowered himself on it, grateful to find it did indeed block the damp from seeping through. He removed his suit jacket and folded it neatly, setting it and the brolly off to the side. He watched his niece play at the edge of the pond, the skirt of her dress already wet and muddied, and imagined reclining and enjoying an afternoon of peaceful quiet with her.

"Ooh!" Amelia cried, and began sloshing frantically in the shallow water.

Mycroft sat up straight.

"_Ooh_!" she repeated, coming directly for him with something cupped in her hands.

The most dangerous man you've ever met flinched in fear.

She fell to her knees and opened her hands. "What is it?" she demanded.

"It's, it's-" Mycroft looked at the wiggly thing properly. "Good lord, it's a tadpole."

"_Really_?"

"Yes, _Rana temporaria_, if I'm not mistaken," he answered, keeping his neat fingers away from the creature.

"Brilliant!" she exclaimed, dumping the slimy thing directly into Mycroft's palm. He squeaked and lifted his hand to return it to her, but she was already rushing off to the shore again.

"Amelia!" Mycroft commanded, and she turned to him in surprise. He softened his features. "Darling. I believe tadpoles need to be in water to live," he reasoned.

"Oh!"

She retrieved the tadpole from him, and he wiped his wet, scummy hand on the edge of the blanket.

Not much later, he found himself sitting cross-legged in front of a row of small jars, each containing a different pond inhabitant.

"And this one?" Amelia asked, pointing to the last one, which housed a bright red insect with black lacy wings.

"Oh, now this _is_ a rarity," Mycroft answered seriously. "Indeed, I have never before seen a creature such as this."

The girl's eyes widened.

"I believe you have discovered a new species of dragonfly, my dear."

She blinked up at him in wonder.

"And so the honor of naming it falls upon you," he continued gravely.

A shudder of joy ran through her. She gazed lovingly at the fiery bug.

"_Smauglet minimosa_."

Mycroft nodded his approval. "Oh, yes. Well-named."

"Do you reckon he likes flowers?" she asked suddenly.

"Oh, all the best dragonflies do."

She popped off, nearly upsetting her jars, and Mycroft straightened them as she picked an armful of fuchsia-colored water lilies, pale pink flowering rushes, and the white and frilly bog bean blooms. She came back and deposited them on the blanket beside her uncle and then settled herself into his lap, muddy skirts and all, as though it were her rightful throne.

"D'you know how to make daisy chains?" she asked him.

"Certainly," Mycroft answered.

"Think we can make a crown from these?"

"I don't see why not."

Mycroft pierced the stems for her with his thumbnail and she worked to thread the flowers together, lining up the blooms as closely as possible.

Mycroft heard a rustling behind him, and turned to look.

"Ah. There you are."

At the sound of her father's voice, Amelia whirled around.

"Thought I'd lost you to the fairies," John quipped, and his daughter jumped from Mycroft's lap and ran over to embrace him.

"Daddy! Isn't it _perfect_? Uncle Mycroft knows all the _best_ places, and he knew the names of _all_ the pollywogs and bugs, and he didn't even yell at me for getting my dress wet, not _once_!"

John made an impressed face at Mycroft, who simply nodded sharply in agreement with Amelia's adoration of him and continued weaving.

"Where's Father?" she asked.

"Right behind me," John answered, and looked up to where Sherlock made his way down the slope towards them. She ran to meet him, and he picked her up in his arms, swinging her 'round before setting her feet on the ground and taking her hand.

"She behave herself?" John asked Mycroft while Amelia was out of earshot.

Mycroft answered without looking up from his task. "She was perfect. She is perfect." His hands stilled a moment. "She is the best thing in my life."

"Mine, too," John said softly.

Mycroft focused very intently on weaving in the last flower.

"And he's _so_ pretty, and I got to name him," Amelia was saying as she and Sherlock neared the others.

"Oh? Show me," Sherlock answered, releasing her hand, and she moved over in front of Mycroft, towards the jars, but stopped when she saw the flower crown in his lap.

He noticed her staring.

"Do you like it, my dear?" he asked.

"It's _beautiful_. It's the most beautiful flower crown I have ever seen in my _entire_ life, _ever_," she lauded.

Mycroft smiled and lifted it up to her. She held it reverentially in her hands, and then ever so carefully placed it on Mycroft's head.

"Oh," he laughed, "No, my dear, it's for you."

"No, it's for you," she argued, shaking her little head.

Mycroft felt rivulets of pond water snaking down his neck, behind his ear, and heard Sherlock dissolving into giggles behind him.

Amelia crossed her arms. "I want you to wear it."

John shook his head. "You'll never get out of it now. She is queen, after all."

"Yes," said Amelia. "And I declare you Princess of the Pond."

John let out a laugh at that and Sherlock gave up on restraining his chuckling.

Mycroft simply stood and, ignoring his brother entirely, bowed deeply.

"Yes, Your Majesty."


End file.
